Dead Men Telling Tales (Preview)
by Salazar's Edge
Summary: New York architect George Trevor is invited by Ozwell E. Spencer to his newly constructed estate in commemoration of its completion, but after his arrival he soon finds evidence that something terrible happened to his family there. [Based on the Trevor Files from the beta version of Resident Evil]


Despite a more than satisfying dinner, George had a hard time swallowing his glass of Château Le Pin. His absent glare seemed to dishearten Spencer, who took great care to please his guests.

"I'm very sorry Mr. Trevor, but we must learn to accept that which we cannot control. Your Aunt Emma's health should be top priority."

George gently set his glass down next to the expensive china their meals were served on.

"Yes, I suppose so, but they could've penned me first." His eyes met Spencer's and for a split second the host's deep blue irises glimmered something peculiar, almost cynical. "When did you say they left?"

"Just yesterday, it was such short notice. I saw to it that arrangements were made for them. They did say they wanted to see you dearly." Without a pause, Spencer beckoned towards one of his servants and within a second he was pouring a bottle of red wine into Spencer's glass. "More for you Mr. Trevor?"

"No thanks, I don't have much of an appetite anymore."

For a moment silence permeated the long hall, interrupted only by the crackling of the fireplace behind the head of the table, above which rested a worn bronze emblem bearing two swords crossing each other. _Ding. DING. _Imposing its way into the ambience, the vintage grandfather clock chimed, signaling the arrival of late night.

Pushing himself away from the candle-lit dinner table, Spencer stood up with his guest following suit. "Surely you must be fatigued from your travels. Let's call it a night. I'll walk you to your quarters."

Somewhere nearby George heard music, a piano, soft and melodic. It took him a second to recognize the tune but once they stepped out into the connecting corridor George realized that it was Piano Sonata No.14, Moonlight Sonata. Classical Beethoven. _Lisa's favorite._

George couldn't sleep. Didn't want to sleep was more like it. A nightmare had crept into his dreams like a malevolent specter moving silently through the night. In it, he and Jessica were having a picnic while Lisa was playing in an open field, nothing else in sight. Golden rustles blew carefree in the gentle breeze. When he turned to kiss his wife she screamed, and suddenly Lisa vanished. George ran across the vast landscape but found no trace of his daughter. He had moved so far out that he lost track of Jessica as well. Isolated, George cried out for his family but his voice was drowned out in the grassy expanse. Then someone rested a cold hand on his shoulder, a strange man in a white robe concealing his entire body. Methodically, the enigmatic figure looked up at George revealing two cold gray eyes and whispered something in his ear, almost inaudible. "Your family is already…"

_For Christ sake, how old am I? Next I'll be worrying about the monster coming out of the closet. _

Quite frankly, times were stressful for the renowned architect. Sure he was fresh off some of the most ambitious projects in the twentieth century but the lonely, sleepless nights had begun to take a toll on George. And above all he just wanted to see his family again.

_I need a smoke. _Sitting up George looked around the darkness in search of his gold Zippo lighter. _Pockets_. He reached over to a small chair a few feet away and felt his way into his coat pocket, the cool, heavy metal slipping into his hand. A sense of calamity washed over him.

It was one of his most prized possessions, a gift given to him by his wife on their wedding day.

_How beautiful she looked in that dress; her lips sweet and tender, her golden curls rolled up like a neatly laid bouquet of roses. My dearest Jessica._

His fingers traced the small engraving at the top of the lighter: G.T. Flipping it open, George rolled back the metal wheel and the warm flame greeted him kindly, dancing carelessly in the dark. He lit up one of his remaining cigarettes and inhaled deeply, letting the black smoke fill his lungs before releasing. _Hope ol' Spencer doesn't mind. _After all, George was still technically the guest even though he _made_ the place. He recognized the room he was in as a relatively small bedroom located between a winding corridor and the staircase to the second floor. There was a typewriter on a nightstand at the foot of the bed along with a few pads of stationery. Unused shelves lined the sides, with drawers full of documents and ribbons for the typewriter. A large chest rested beside the only door in the room.

Just outside was a hallway that twisted around a column, leading back to the room where Tiger Eyes lived. Indeed the unconventionality of the house intrigued George somewhat, but he didn't think too much of it. What should have been more alarming however, were the unlimited funds Spencer had generously lent out for the construction of the mansion. Never before was George handed so much monetary support for any project, but Spencer requested perfection and the renowned architect didn't disappoint.

He stepped out into the hall and walked up to one of the windows, appreciating the silence of the night save for the occasional chirp of a cricket or caw of a crow. Rows of thick trees spread far beyond the eye could see. The house was nested deep within the Arklay Mountain range, isolated from any remnants of civilization. Spencer didn't necessarily strike George as a recluse, though the wealthy aristocrat did have a particular enigma surrounding him.

He blew a puff of smoke towards the window, staring at his own reflection as it dispersed into the air, however what caught George's attention next stole all of _his _air. _Impossible!_ Movement from deep in the forest, only a blur but enough to make out what appeared to be a man staring straight back at George. A man dressed in a white hooded robe, a carbon copy of the one in his nightmare.


End file.
